PS 

5515 





rairie powera 

Margaret 

Belie 
.Houston, 









■1 i 11 




Class ?S 35 \ 5 
Book_Jkl9LB8_ 



Copyright N?. 



\°)0J 



COPYKIGIIT DEPOSIT. 



Prairie Flowers 



Margaret Belle Houston 




boston 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

iTlir (gnrliaui \keas 
1907 



Copyright 1906 by Margaret Belle Houston 



All Rights Reserved 



i LIBRARY of CONGRESS? 
Two Comes Received j 
. C £B 19 190/ | 

j i-Oooyrifirht Entry 

cuss A xx4„ d. 



OOlrT B, 









x- 



7/;<? Gorhatn Press, Boston 



To S. S. H. 



CONTENTS 



Texas 

The Angelus 

February (i) 

Early Rose 

Your Eyes 

The Minstrel 

Aftermath 

Compensation 

Love's Infinitude 

Sparrows in the South 

Dawn's Recompense 

Mary Victoria 

To Maud 

December 

Blanche 

In the Garden 

Sunset 

February (2) 

Ada 

At Even 

Liebesweh 

The Two Lovers 

In My Garden 

The Moon Bower 

To A White Butterfly 

The Rose 

Summer Night 

The Lady of Tears 

The Risen Lord 

Calvary 

In the Field 

In the Corn 

Easter Dawn 



Q 
12 
12 

l 3 

J 5 
*5 
17 
18 

19 
20 
21 
22 
23 
23 
24 
24 
25 
25 

25 
26 

26 
26 
27 
29 
30 
3° 
31 
3 1 
34 
35 
36 
37 
38 



Love's April 










38 


March . 










39 


A Day . . . 










40 


Minnie May 










4i 


Fled Eros 










42 


Gift Roses 










43 


Coquette 










44 


The Pupil . 










44 


Boating 










45 


Meriel 










46 


Last Night 










46 


My Troubles 










47 


Nurse Maggie 










48 


Bed-time 










5° 


My Soldier . 










5* 


The Baby's Curls 










52 


The Weaver 










53 


The Daughter 










53 


Prudence: 1808: 










54 


Roses and a Memory 










56 


Two Letters 










57 


The Kiss 










62 


The Minnesinger 








65 


The Rose and Rosalind 










67 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS 



TEXAS 

She is young and poorly tutored and her feet are brown and 

bare, 
And the winds from off the Prairie tan her cheek and toss 

her hair. 
And she plants her northern borders and she guides her 

southern wave, 
And she dreams not half the promise that the great All 

Father gave. 
She has felt the weight of shackles and her wrists are 

purple yet, 
She has trod a bitter wine-press that she never can forget, 
And among her central hill-sides where the cactus bushes 

blow, 
Bleak against the blue above her, stands a silent Alamo. 

In the pauses of her freedom she can hear its shadows 

speak, 
And her heart beats high with triumph and the tear is on 

her cheek, 
For its signal-gun grew silent with the heart-beat of her 

brave, 
And the star that lights her forehead drew its luster from 

their grave. 
Long ago they marched and struggled in the battle's 

heated breath, 
Strong of heart and stern of purpose, dauntless in the face 

of death. 

For dark with hate of tyranny, they murmured in their 

chains, 
They climbed the purple hill-tops and they looked across 

the plains, 
They saw the green slopes reaching down to touch the 

far-off sea, 



They felt the prairie wind and cried, " God made us to 

be free! 
He has stretched His sky above us, He has smoothed it 

with His hand, 
He has bound His ocean to us with a belt of golden sand, 
And thro' our veins and in our hearts there beats the 

blood of braves, 
And shall they fetter down our hands and tell us we are 

slaves ?" 

Oh, they boasted not the blazonry nor glory-notes of war! 
No brazen trumpet heralded their coming from afar, 
But they fought as fought the noblest yet of any clime or 

creed, 
That mighty little army in its deer-skin and its tweed. 
For they looked beyond the battle thro' the darkness of 

the years, 
Saw the harvest of the heart-blood and the wife's and 

mother's tears, 
Saw their fettered Texas rising crowned with Freedom's 

own white kiss, 
Strong and fair and all unshackled — it was sweet to die 

for this! 

God be thanked! The holy crimson of their blood is on 

our soil, 
Have we not their old-time courage to look upward from 

our toil ? 
Look! Behold the promise shining, when the years have 

given place, 
See the high-ascending pathway where our Texas turns 

her face. 
I can see her white robes shining in the dimness of the 

dawn, 
And the star with gathering glory lights her as she presses 

on. 



10 



There are rents within her garments, there are scars upon 

her hands, 
And the sword of great Jacinto hangs all blood-marked 

where she stands, 
And her green fields stretch beneath her in a beauteous 

breadth unrolled, 
Like a page, where slowly written, all her world of wealth 

is told. 

It is coming Oh my brothers! We are forging thro' the 

night, 
Let us toil, and all in patience, for the east is growing 

bright. 
Let us strive as strove before us, all that stalwart little 

band, 
For the Lord of Hosts is with us and He guides us by His 

hand, 
And this we know and this we feel, whatever comes, Oh 

State, 
That He who made thee to be free, has made thee to be 

great! 



11 



THE ANGELUS 

'Tis when the pulse of Nature stops 
A moment and the drowsy day 
Leans languid on the mountain-tops 
And breathes her golden life away, 

'Tis just before the twilight lends 
The waiting earth her shadow-pall, 
'Tis just before the dusk descends 
In star-lit quiet over all, 

When sweetly low and faintly clear, 
The Angelus her summons rings, 
And pausing, one can almost hear 
The soft descent of angel wings. 

Then strife is hushed and passion quelled 
And one brief space all life is rest, 
As tho' the great God pitying held 
The weary world against his breast. 

FEBRUARY (i) 

She came at night with shining fall of sleet, 

Veiling her like a bride. The pale young moon 
Glimmered above her brows; for her white feet 

The snow made silver shoon. 
Nor song, nor laughter wanton on her lips, 

In her cool cheek no kindling roses vie, 
Yet the white beckon of her finger-tips 

Unveils the sapphire sky. 
Ah, chaste, ah cold, this ice-enregaled maid! 

Yet at the last when all the woods are rent 
With boistrous blare of March the Unafraid, 

Apulse she stands, her passing feet delayed, 
Then backward turning, as in sweet lament, 

Her soft eyes shine thro' tears and down the glade 
Foot-prints of violets show the way she went. 
12 



THE EARLY ROSE 

It is meet that I should die; 
In the far horizon's keep, 
Where the June-gold burned so deep, 
Sadder tints at even lie, 
And the night-wind, warm with sleep, 
Will wake colder, by and by — 
— Shall I wait till that is nigh ? 

Shall I feel the pallor grow 
On my cheek, and from my heart 
All the fragrant life depart ? 
Where the green leaf used to blow, 
Shall I watch the crimson start 
Like a hectic, till the slow 
Winter trudges thro' the snow ? 

All my folded sweet is gone 
With the primal blue of sky, 
With the May-wind and the shy 
Dappling of the April dawn. 
Not for me the cool shades lie, 
All the lingering grass upon, 
Not for me the hills grow wan. 

Fare thee well, Oh Mocking-bird! 
Sing, as in that hushful hour 
Ere I knew thee; when my flower, 
Calyx-prisoned, filled and stirred 
With the trembling and the power 
Of a fore-felt joy, deferred, 
And I blossomed— and I heard! 
Sing, Oh Mocking-bird, aye, sing! 
All the hours for thee are gold. 
O'er and o'er the tale is told, 
And the first sweet odors cling. 
When our changing skies grow cold, 
Thou dost bend thy deathless wing, 
Fearless, tow'rd another Spring. 
13 



Fare thee well, Oh Butter-fly, 

Stricken one, aren't happy too, 

Tho' thy wing hath lost its blue ? 

We were lovers, thou and I, 

When the world was flushed and new, 

Now thou floatest like a sigh. 

It is meet that we should die. 

Come then, Oh thou noon-tide breeze, 

Come in Pity's fatal haste. 

Let thou not my perfume waste 

In the ebbing drops that tease, 

Till pale Autumn, taste by taste, 

Eats me idly at her ease, 

After I have ceased to please. 

Come then down the smiling sky, 
Smite me — burn me — thou art kind — 
Come then, Oh thou Summer wind! 
Tho' thy breath is parched and dry, 
I will kiss thee back, resigned. 
(Fare thee well, Oh Butter-fly!) 
It is meet that I should die. 



14 



YOUR EYES 

They are so dear to me, your eyes, 
So frank, so loving and so true. 

Deep as the Heaven beyond the skies 
And tender as its outer blue. 

They are so dear — that I would fain 

Shut each white lid with reverent kiss, 

Lest you should look upon my pain 

And grieve you cannot spare me this. 

They are so dear that all my heart 
Beats warmer when I feel their gaze, 

And sweet winds move and flowers start 
Along the pathway of my days. 

'Tis not all pain — not all, mine Own, 
Since first you came and understood, 

From my new soul real wings have grown, 
And all the outer world is good! 



THE MINSTREL 

" She hath not wept for the son she bore, 
God pity her life," they said. 

" For never the wound of grief eals o'er 
Till the burning tears are bled 

From the veins at the deep heart-core." 

"Oh grey day, Oh grey day 
By wind and rain so bowed 

Oh May-day, Oh May-day 
That sits behind the cloud 



15 



She parted her curtains darkly drawn, 
And, "Who is it sings?" she said. 
1 'Tis a little minstrel below on the lawn 
Knows not that the prince is dead. 
Soft! We will bid him begone." 

" Oh twilight, rathe twilight 
That blights my best of days! 

Oh lilies, God's lilies 

That grow in shadow' d ways!" 

" Nay," she said, "Let him sing if he will, 

Songs are for such as he. 
Did he waken the one that lies so still 

God knows it were well with me. " 
And she stood at the window-sill. 

" Oh bleak wind — Oh cold ivind 
That laid my flower low ! 

Oh violets, new violets 

That watt beneath the snow !" 

Soft from the darkened room they stept, 

(But they did not bid him go) 
Close to her face her white hands crept 

To cover her mother-woe, 
And soft in the dark she wept. 

" Oh sorrow, my sorrow 
That hath so deep a smart ! 

Oh tear-drops, warm tear-drops 
That hallow all the heart!" 



16 



AFTERMATH 

If I should go to you in that old place. 

(God knows, dear heart, we trod it smooth and straight!) 

And lifting up to yours a tear-worn face, 
Should whisper, " Darling, it is not too late, 
For life and love can soon unbar the gate. " 

You would say "No," e'en though your lips were dumb — 

Fear not: 1 shall not come. 

If you should gather up the poor, pale shreds 
Of what is left and bring them here to me, 

Saying, " Fate tangled. Let us mend the threads 
And weave a web more beautiful to see," 
All weeping, I would' cry, " It may not be." 

And I would cast it by with hands all numb — 

Nay, Sweet; you will not come. 

We each have learned the lesson rapt apart, 
The better task Fate set us ere the moon. 

The storms of Life have beat across my heart 
And scourged its madden'd throbbing into tune. 
Who would have looked for moth and rust so soon ? 

Nay, Patience, Sweet! God will bend down some day 

And lift your hand to wipe my tears away. 



17 



COMPENSATION 

I will be brave for he would have me so, 
1 will march on for he hath taught me how, 
And tho' the tear-mist blinds me as 1 go, 
Mine eyes are lifted now. 

Dimly I mark the soft white morning star, 
Dimly I read the message of the skies, 

And I behold within the east afar, 
The slow new sun arise! 

I thank thee, Lord: at last I know that thou, 
All-wise, All-kind, hast only loved him best, 

Hast found him meet to walk beside thee now, 
And lean upon thy breast. 

I know full well he would have bent and shared 
The heavy burden and the thorny plain, 

And so I thank thee Lord, that thou hast spared 
My loved one all this pain. 

I know full well that all the tears I shed 
Shall spring again in flowers far beyond, 

And he shall kiss me where my heart hath bled 
With healing lips and fond. 

I thank thee that whatever comes to me, 
He still is safe and sheltered at thy side, 

With eyes made glad by sweet eternity 
And dear arms opened wide 



To fold me at my coming: afterwhile 

Mine eyes shall shed their blinding scales and see 

His face unchanged, lit with the old-time smile 
That was so dear to me. 

And so till then my loved one I bequeath 

To that white haven far from earth's alarms, 

All radiant peace above, and underneath 
The everlasting arms. 



LOVE'S INFINITUDE 

Nay, do not say, " This much I love you, dear." 

E'en tho' you make of all-sufficing breadth 

Your need for me: e'en tho' you set its bounds 

Beyond the farthest rim of sky or sea, 

Of night or day — nay, I would have you feel 

Your love exceeds your reckoning. Oh Sweetheart, 

I like not limitation in our love. 

Say but, " I love you," Let me feel that end — 

If end there be, or limit — lies so far 

We cannot guage it in this little life. 



19 



SPARROWS IN THE SOUTH 

Oh little enemy beneath mine eaves, 

Who mak'st thy nest in chattering unconcern, 
Tho' all the woods are still, 
Tho' in the deep embrace of tender leaves 
That wait the glad and amorous return 
Of thrush and whip-poor-will, 

Are barren nests — Oh little foreign foe, 
The feathered right to any sky is thine, 
To any bough or field, 
Yet must thy new invasion bid to go 

The gentle native from his own sunshine 
His harmless joy to yield ? 

And he my warbler of the dusky throat, 

My mocking-bird that turned the night to gold 
With tender alchemy, 
He too is fled: this pinched and starveling note, 
These little prying faces keen and bold, 
Possess mine orange tree. 

At morn he piped a joyous reveille 

In bloomy boscage of my lawn immured, 
And in the garish noon 
He mocked his woodland mates in wanton glee, 
But all his breaking heart in love outpoured 
When rose the fair full moon! 

Now all my casement feeleth cold and strange, 
And all my garden seemeth pale and still 
At golden dusk and dawn, 
What have ye now to give me in exchange, 
Ye little critics that "have carped until 
My Keats is gone ? 



20 



DAWN'S RECOMPENSE 

He begged me for the little toys at night, 
That I had taken lest he play too long; 

The little broken toys — his sole delight. 
I held him close in wiser arms and strong; 
And sang with trembling voice the even-song. 

Reluctantly the drowsy lids dropped low, 
The while he pleaded for the boon denied. 

Then when he slept, too dream-content to know, 
I mended them and laid them by his side, 

That he might find them in the early light, 

And wake the gladder for the ransomed sight. 

So, Lord, like children at the even-fall, 

We weep for broken playthings, loath to part, 

And thou, unmoved, because thou knowest all, 
Dost fold us from the treasures of our heart, 

And we shall find them at the morning-tide, 

Awaiting us, unbroke and beautified. 



21 



MARY VICTORIA 

How pure the little face is! Just blown off 
From the low forehead hovers the bright hair, 

As though its radiance were not chaste enough 
To brush a thing so fair. 

Strange are the wond'ring eyes, the lashes raised 
From the blue orb, emitting such a ray 

As makes one breathe more softly, she hath gazed 
On angels yesterday. 

And then the red mouth locked so sweetly in 
With little laughter at the corners curled, 

A witching chance that almost makes her kin 
With our poor merry world. 

Sweet little face, unsullied as the dew 

Born in the night while still the stars hold sway, 

With over all the child soul shining thro', 
Like a new-risen day! 



22 



TO MAUD 

I watched thee bloom in the soft April shine 

Of sun thro' shower, with all the grass dew-bright, 

And all the sky so blue, save where some fine, 

Wind-drifted down of cloud made path-way white- 

I watched thee bloom and all glad hopes were mine, 
And fond impatience for thy beauty's height. 

My sweet blown rose! My warm unfolded bud! 

Tilt thy flushed face and kiss me! Now thou hast 
Expanded in thy fullness to the flood 

Of June's rich sunlight, thou art bloomed at last! 
I ask no more, and yet I've half a mood 

To wish the day of folded leaves unpassed. 



DECEMBER 

Too late, dear Heart, a while agone if you 
Had brought to me the hope that now you do, 
As when the Summer from the sweet South blows, 
My heart had waken'd with the op'ning Rose! 

Beyond my hearth the bleached fields stretch bare, 

And the white Winter falleth like a prayer, 

The cold rhime rattles on the frozen bough, 

— What breath could wake the Rose of Summer now ? 

But Oh, for that young, eager April's sake, 
Eor that heart-bud on which no bloom-tide brake, 
I ope my door and greet you as my guest. 
Come to my fire and warm you, friend, and rest. 



23 



BLANCHE 

She came! The wonted shades of night 
May veil once more the paling face of day, 

But in my heart her coming left a light 
That cannot pass away. 



IN THE GARDEN 

The lily lifts her bridal whiteness up, 

And leans a list'ning to th' impassioned rose, 

The dewdrop answer trembles in her cup, 
Shines on her silver lip and overflows. 

They lean and love for all the world to see, 

But thou, my love, thou lean'st no more to me! 

Oh mocking-bird, that bosomed in the height 

Of yon magnolia, warblest all alone 
Thy liquid litany of heart-delight, 

While the pure moon steps slowly tow'rd her throne. 
Lo! Thou hast lured all joy to soar with thee, 
And thou, my love, thou sing'st no more to me. 

Oh one white star in all the blue abyss! 

Oh trembling star that lookest on my pain! 
So shook my soul beneath his parting kiss, 

So waits my heart, alone and all in vain. 
Oh Night, sweet Night, I bare my grief to thee — 
Oh world, far off, give back my love to me! 



24 



SUNSET 

Sunken beneath a purple-peaked hill, 

With one last look of love the sun is gone; 

But the warm West, who feels his death-kiss still, 
Heart-passionate, throbs on. 

FEBRUARY (2) 

'Tis February where the sweet South blows, 

And the blue sky laughs sunshine down the snows — • 

The soft, warm snows, mere feathers from the wing 

Of Winter flying northward. Now the Spring 

Comes tiptoe softly, light as fairies trip, 

With sidelong glance and finger on her lip, 

And the first violet, bold of heart, yet shy, 

Shakes off his cap of green as she goes by — 

And now on leafy hedges, softly blows 

The folded ruby of the April rose! 

ADA 

They laid her where the purple lilies blew. 
(She oft had played there as a little child.) 
Where daffodils and pink primroses smiled, 
And gold-eyed daisies nodded in the dew. 

With fragrant arms her woodland friends received 
The passive charge whom life had ne'er oppressed, 
Who needed not the early-given rest, 
Who had not loved and lost or toiled and grieved. 

She did not lie with those whose o'er-ripe hours 
Had made death sweet, or those whom life denied 
The promised boon; she had but bloomed and died, 
And so they laid the flower among the flowers. 

25 



AT EVEN 

The day is dead — ah, wind her in a sheet 
Of prple darkness, aye — nor give her moan. 
Theuay is dead, the day that was so sweet 

Ere fully blown, 
The day we clasped new-born and called our own! 

Soft! Lay her down. 'Twas not for thee or me 
She rose and reddened on the bright'ning sky, 
The fulness of some other's hope was she: 

Love, let her die, 
Our day shall bud and blossom by and by! 



LIEBESWEH 

Frail the ties that bound us, 
(But O! Their breaking!) 

Small the barb did wound us, 
(But O! The aching!) 

'Twas but sleep that softly found us, 

Only dreams that rose around us, 
(But O! The waking!) 



THE TWO LOVERS 

Dear heart, they told me you were dead. 

I rose up weary in the gloom. 
They drew the sheet above your head, 

And led me gently from the room. 

Dear heart, they dressed you white and sweet, 
They folded back your shining hair, 

All straight and white from head to feet, 
Your fingers pointed in a prayer. 



26 



They wreathed you with their roses pale, 
And some one murmured as you lay, 

" 'Twere meet we wound her in the veil 
" She would have worn for him to-day." 

He came at eve with altered pace. 

Long dwelt his gaze in grief and prayer 
Upon the flower of your face, 

The fettered sunlight of your hair. 

And lo! We sat there, side by side, 

Till the white dawn looked in the pane, 

And blue-birds, waking, called the bride 
With tinkle of sweet song, like rain. 

'Twas then he spoke, the while he stood, 
With hand upon my shoulder laid, 

" Ah, she was fair and she was good, 
" And she was mine — if she had staid. 

" But she is gone; all's done, in fine. 

"Here let our old-time cavil end: 
" Leave it with her, who is not mine, 

" Nor aught but Death's: 'Twere better, friend. 

How frail the words, how small — how few! 

Yet lo! thev rolled away the stone 
From my heart's door. Thenceforth I knew 

That thou wert mine and mine alone! 



IN MY GARDEN 

'Round my trellised garden twine the roses, 
Red and gold upreaching side by side, 

In my garden grow the late blue violets, 
Like the ones you loved before you died. 



27 



In the early morn I move among them, 
Ere the sun has drunk their dole of dew, 

There I linger in the hush of twilight 

While the stars steal o'er me still and few. 

It was here we used to walk together 
In the joy-time of that other June, 

It was here the world was always lovely 

From the May-day thro' the harvest-moon. 

Now the children of those vanished roses 
Keep the perfume of your passing by. 

Seems the dahlia saith, " She smiled upon me," 
Seems the violet owns, " I heard her sigh." 

Where your hand brushed lightly there the lily 
Sways more white upon her stately stem, 

Sighs Acacia, " I have touched her tresses," 
Breathes the grass, " I kissed her garment-hem. " 

Oh my Love, not yonder in the church-yard, 
Where pale ivy wreathes your blessed name, 

No, not there I find you in my longing, 

You are here and with me just the same. 

Should I gather these to lay above you, 

Leaving where they bloomed the barren scars, 

You would miss them when you looked at even 
Thro' the soft white shining of the stars. 

So I leave them on my heart's dear altar, 
Sacred to the presence that they knew, 

Radiant for your smile that is the sunlight, 
Holy for your touch that is the dew. 



28 



THE MOON BOWER 

Heart o' my Inmost Heart, I have made thee a wonderful 

place! 
Roses deep-hearted and white and scarlet and gold bloom 

there, 
Long green tangles of fern and lily-bells fine as lace, 
In odorous dusk-filled bow'rs where the wide white 

moon-flow'rs stare. 

Soft! It is hid in the hollow where hill links hill. 

Here do I steal in the star-time — or dream that I do. 
(When the Fates have turned cruel, Oh Heart, we cheat 
them and dream as we will!) 

All in the still sweet star-time I wait here for you. 

Softly the jessamine breathes her amorous soul on the air, 

Shy little tip-toeing winds go warily by, 
The moon like the wraith of a maiden wrapt in the veil o 
her hair, 
Slender and shining and white, sits low in the slope of 
the sky. 
Deep is the moss at my feet — it hushes your step as you 

come — 
But I know it is you and I wait and I kneel at your feet! 
Fain would my love break in blossoms of words — I am 
dumb. 
Fain would you speak unto me but your silence is sweet. 

What tho' my hallowed Eden is hidden where none may 

g °' 
Its planter an olden Mem'ry, its warden a radiant 

Dream ? 

I would not barter it now for the veriest blooms that grow, 

For never the heart shall break in The Land of Things 

that Seem. 



29 



I [ere it is always star-light and here it is always June, 
With never a blight on the lilies and never the fall of 

snow, 
Never mine ardent song-birds shall pipe to a waning 

moon, 
And ever my bowers be fragrant and the cheek of my 

roses glow! 

TO A WHITE BUTTERFLY 

A drift of wind from out an ashen sky, 
A drift of idle wind and all is still. 

White — Ah! So white— a tardy butterfly 
Floats like a petal to my window-sill. 

Floats on frail wings that quiveringly close 
Like snowy palms in prayer, then slowly part. 

Alas, so still! Poor Blossom! With thee goes 
The last faint flutter of the Summer's heart. 



THE ROSE 

Take thou this rose, Beloved, ere we part, 
'Tis like to thee, so white, so wonderful, 

'Tis like thy fragrant life which I would cull, 
And wear forever on my beating heart. 

Good-bye. God lead you 'neath the Summer skies! 

I to the barren lowland must return. 
Fate stands before us, silent, dark and stern, 

Yet who can tell what smile is in her eyes ? 

Ah, we shall meet again! The world is rife 

With just such meetings — nay, dear heart, who knows ? 

The petals fold the fragrance of the rose: 
So fold the future days, our joy in life. 

30 



SUMMER NIGHT 

Oh, Love that night! The new moon silver-pale, 

Hung in a vault of melting violet, 
The large white stars were trembling in her veil 

Like living gems unset. 

Oh Love, that night! The proud magnolia swung 
Her ivory lamp of incense high above. 

Deep in her leafy dusk the mock-bird sung 
Of love — of love — of love! 

Lo, passion-prodigal, the red rose brake 

Her sole sweet box of spikenard on the breeze, 

And faery fireflies dreamily awake, 
Hashed tangling 'neath the trees. 

Soft fell your step! The love-wrought music died, 
Deep in the grass the night-wind sank to rest. 

In all the world there was no sound beside 
I he heart-beat in my breast. 



THE LADY OF FEARS 

"The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachrymarum, 
Our Lady of Tears." — De Quincey. 

It was morn and the robin was singing 
In the bud-time and bloom of my years. 

It was morn and she entered my garden, 
The terrible Lady of Tears. 

She came thro' the ranks of my roses, 
Her shadow fell dark on my bliss, 

She came and I shrank in my mantle 
And covered my mouth from her kiss. 

31 



And out of the pall and the stillness 
That lay on my garden-place, 

I cried unto God to deliver 

My soul from the woe in her face. 

Or his infinite wisdom he heard me, 
And soft from my praying she passed, 

But the lilies awoke in my garden 
Wherever her shadow was cast, 

And the riotous red of my roses 
Seemed garish and vain full soon, 

The bountiful notes of the robin 
Were hollow and out of tune. 

I loved but the look of my lilies, 
Snow-pale in their lifted spears 

In the place where had fallen the shadow 
Of the dark-veiled Lady of Tears. 

I yearned in my sheltered garden 
For the ranks of my brother-men 

And I passed thro' its twined portal 
Never to enter again. 

And here on the crowded highway 
Were struggle and strife and din, 

The haggard body of Hunger, 
The lowering visage of Sin. 

And the looks of my hurrying brothers 
And the passing clasp of their hand 

Were part of an infinite heartache 
I did not understand. 



32 



Yet I joined in their mad pursuing 
Nor heeded the trampled cry, 

And many I must have bruised, 
And many I hurried by. 

When lo! on the struggling highway, 
In the reckless heat of the race, 

I felt the breath of my lilies, 
And I met her face to face. 

She stopped in the throng before me, 
My heart had its old-time fears, 

But I lifted my face and I knew her, 
The beautiful Lady of Tears. 

She folded me deep on her bosom 
And I did not wrench apart, 

bitter the kiss that she gave me, 

But sweet was her touch on my heart. 

And lo! as she passed I listened, 
Of a sudden I heard their cries, 

1 knelt by the ones who had fallen, 
I looked in their lifted eyes, 

And never the bruised one weepeth 
But I clasp his hand in the mart, 

And never a hurrying brother 
But I feel the beat of his heart. 

For deep in the tide of their anguish 
I would bury the thought of the years 

That came ere my soul received her, 
The love-giving Lady of Tears. 



33 



THE RISEN LORD 

In the grey dark of that first Easter morn, 
She made her way beneath the unset stars, 
Swift to the garden where her Lord was laid. 
Lo, the rolled stone, the vacant sepulcherl 
The Angel warden, awful in the gloom, 
The 'He is risen!' smiting thro' her brain 
The double sense of losing: deep she wept 
As one too dazzled to be comforted. 

' Mary,' she turned: there in the dawning light 
Her Saviour stood with Heavenly human eyes 
And marks of willing sorrow in His hands, 
' Why weepest thou ?' He said. 

Look up, thou lone night-watcher, who hast come 
Heart-weary thro' the dark to find thy Lord. 
Rejoice, for He is risen! Look up, nor shall 
The blinding whiteness of the Easter smite 
Thine eyes to earth. Behold He is not risen 
Above the reach of hands that would be healed 
With touch of His asecnding garment-hem, 
Nor yet beyond the feel of human tears. 
Amid the halleluiahs still He speaks 
In low and loving voice, 'Why weeepest thou ? ' 



34 



CALVARY 

Incense, altar and prayer, 

And division of rank and race. 

The Christ on the cross hung there 
In the dark of the Holy Place, 

Bleeding, desolate, dim, 

And the World with her painted face 

Is waiting to worshi dHim. 

Incense, altar and praise, 

And the glitter of gem and gold, 

The cross in a violet haze 

Soft from the censer rolled. 
Music imploring and sweet, 

And the world in her pomp, kneels cold 
On the cushions at her feet. 

Incense, altar and prayer, 

And the tremulous " I believe," 

The Christ-God bleeding and bare, 
The World he died to reprieve, 

Lo! He prayeth anew, 
" Father, Father, forgive, 

They know not what they do!" 



35 



IN THE FIELD 

Here is my temple, domed with the broad sky, 
Mine organ is the wind among the pines, 
The loitering brook doth speak my litany, 
I learn of the white lilies, and my beads 
I tell on daisies nodding at my knees. 

Here to the field upon the Sabbath day 

I come anhungered from the place of men, 

And not in scorn my Master feedeth me. 



36 



IN THE CORN 

Thro' the plumed ranks of corn 
Listlessly I made my way. 
Gold and sapphire was the day 
At the time when maiden Morn 
Ripens into amorous Noon, 
When the cool, unconquered May 
Feels the bursting heart of June. 

Listless thro' the corn I went, 
Listless till I heard a song 
Sung with tender voice and strong, 
Sung with sweet abandonment, 
And I met her face to face 
Mid the corn-leaves green and long, 
Like some Ceres of the place. 

Oh the ripe brown of her hair! 
Oh the red within her cheek! 
And the lips that seemed to speak 
With their song yet on the air, 
She, the goddess of the grain, 
Goddess-grave and goddess-fair 
Stood before me, mortal-plain. 

Nay, an artless country maid 
Gathering the ripened corn, 
Singing for the joy of morn, 
Dark and sweet and unafraid. 
Deep as forest pools her eyes, 
Pools that shine with stars high-born 
In a mirrored realm of skies. 



37 



Quick the May-time sunlight flowed 
T o her face, and bright she smiled 
With the frankness of a child; 
And she moved with tasseled load 
Graciously that I might pass. 
Oh the corn-ranks greenly filed! 
Oh the little country lass! 

Dost thou seek for Happiness — 
Happiness so bright-arrayed ? 
Thou shalt pass her, I'm afraid, 
In her dull and simple dress. 
Would I had delayed that morn 
With the little country maid 
Singing in the ripened corn! 



EASTER DAWN 

Why is the air so filled with holy sweetness ? 

The gates of Heaven seem gently swung apart. 
What perfect peace, what infinite completeness, 

Hath laid her quiet hand on Nature's heart ? 

Oh, wondrous morn! Oh, life in bud and blossom! 

Oh, Earth and Heaven attuned in sweet accord! 
Kneeleth the waiting world, with thankful bosom, 

Hushed pure with prayer before her risen Lord. 



LOVE'S APRIL 

I watched a rosebud silently unfold. 

(Oh, Love comes softly, secretly.) 
The opal petals mellowed into gold. 
A dewdrop from the center rose and rolled. 

(Oh, Love is mystery.) 



38 



A zephyr breathed upon a lilac bough. 

(Oh, Love is bitter-sweet distress.) 
The loosened perfume falling smote my brow, 
My heart was gladdened and I know not how. 

(Oh, Love is joyfulness.) 

The rosebud laid her summered beauty wide. 

(Oh, Love intense, is pain, is pain.) 
The zephyr kissed her and she glowed with pride, 
The zephyr loitered laughing on— she died. 

Oh, Love is vain, is vain.) 



MARCH 

High-hidden in hilltop or cloud, 
Young March is beginning to blow, 

Lusty and loud, 
With saucy cheek puffed and aglow. 
Ho, Winter! Wrap close in your shroud 
And cling to your cap as you go. 

Blow! Blow! 
In laughter-leaps over the snow. 

He has rattled the reverend oaks, 

He has peeped into bonnets and cloaks, 

Panting nor pausing tor rest. 

Blow! Blow! 
Into each cranny he pokes 
His little red nose for a pest. 

Heigh-ho! 
And he laughs like a lord at the jest. 

Soft! For the woods are still, 

Sunlit the wide blue air, 

Fragrant and all athrill 

With the throbbing of things that grow, 



39 



With the slow 

Whispers of song that trill 

From the mated pair. 

And lo! 
White-robed, serene and fair, 
The maiden, April, steps adown the hill, 
With violets braided in her leaf-brown hair. 



A DAY 



Fleckless water and cloudless sky, 

Never a zephyr ruffles the bay. 
Lighter than feet of a faery we fly, 
Swift as the little glad hours go by, 

Dallying, dimpling, touched with spray, 
What care you and what care I ? 

Youth and Laughter and Love hold sway, 

Let us be merry the while we may! 



Only a shadow across the blue, 
Little it matters, row! be glad! 

Nerves are steady and hearts are true, 

Come! We will pledge our faith anew, 
We've lost the laughter that once we had. 

Give me an oar, I'll help you thro'. 

What does it matter tho' storms may brew ? 

Draw me closer, Oh Heart, to you. 



40 



EVENING 



Wreck of a boat on the weed-strewn sand, 

Calm are the storm-beat waves at last. 
God be thanked, we have gained the land! 
Ah, you were brave and you scarce can stand 

Now that the danger and death are past. 
Sweeter than Youth and all her band, 

Is the love that has weathered the tide and the blast. 
Dark is it ? No, for I feel thy hand. 



MINNIE MAY 

Minnie May! The faeries named thee! 

Mtnne meaneth Love, they say, 
And some faery touch inflamed thee 

With the sun-beam joy of May! 
Could a sweeter twain have claimed thee, 

Love and Joy, O Minnie May! 

Aery foam that flecks the ocean, 

Drifts of thistle-down that stray 
Here and yon with merry notion, 

Summer breezes at their play- 
All sweet things of gladsome motion, 
These are like thee, Minnie May. 

Wild rose red'ning in the hedges, 

Rainbow arching o'er the grey, 
Butterfly with gold wing-edges, 

Dawn-hint of the April day- 
All bright things of brighter pledges, 
These are like thee, Minnie May. 



41 



Thou has looked upon the measure 
Of God's heaven hut yesterday, 

And thou contest with the treasure 

Of its brightness, Minnie May, 
In thine eyes' unclouded azure 
May the glory dwell alway! 

Love, whose radiant hand did lend thee, 
Strew white blossoms on thy way, 

Joy, whose music doth attend thee, 
Move thy footsteps night and day, 

Could a sweeter twain defend thee, 
Love and Joy, O Minnie May! 

FLED EROS 

Oh nodding plumes of lilac, an' ye list, 
Waft me a kiss of fragrance, as ye blow — 
Lean lower, skies of April-amethyst, 
Touch me with Heaven! Roses all aglow 
With Robin's wooing, lend your hearts to me, 
In Spring's sweet hey-day I would joyous be, 
But Love hath loosed his fingers from my wrist. 

In the low cradle of two loving hills, 

Lined with soft daffodils, and dark and deep, 

A nook o' dreams, where the mad mock-bird spills 

His golden rain of joy — I lay asleep, 

And Love a tip-toe came, and oped mine eyes — 

Oh, long sweet breath of wonder and surprise! 

It was last March among the daffodils. 

Sweet little Love! Young April's rosy hours, 
And May, star-crowned, and langorous, red-lipped June, 
Found us, gay pilgrims in the realm of flowers, 
And so the Summer ripened into noon — 
Oh, Eros! Eros! Thou art all to blame! 
Go hide thy little changeful face for shame. 
— I stood alone, neath bloom-bereaved bowers. 
42 



I vowed to follow thro' the Autumn rain 

And Winter snow; why didst thou turn and flee ? 

I ceased to feel strange music move my brain, 

I shook my fettered hands — and found them free! 

Fell at my feet a withered daisy-chain. 

Oh, sing birds mid the blossoms of this year, 

Perhaps fled Eros may look up and hear, 

And dancing down the meadows, come again. 



GIFT-ROSES 

Tell me, Dearest of All the World, 

Is it the roses I love — or you ? 

Breathing embodiments fair are they 

Of June-time and blush-time and love-time new, 

Faerily furled 

Fold upon fold, 

Cunningly curled 

Hoarding the gold 

In the innermost sweet of their hearts away — 

(Oh little prison, folded and soft, 

Yield me your treasure without delay!) 

Morn hath wept in her joy and pearled 

Each petal-cheek with a globe of dew! 

Virgin the blush that looketh thro' 

For the bee hath paused as he hung aloft 

Hushing the buzz of his busy wings 

Nor daring to plunder such perfect things. 

Tell me, Dearest of All the World, 

Is it the beauty their faces hold 

Or the secret their innermost hearts have told — 

Is it the roses I love — or you ? 



43 



COQUETTE 

Dear there were four o'clocks down by the gate, 

And roses all drowsy with musk, 
The moon like a queen on her dark throne sate 

And the white stars jeweled the dusk. 
It was late, dear heart, so late. 

Love-mad, the hid mocking bird tangled a spell, 

His rhapsody stirred the bough, 
Till petal by petal the white plum fell 

And clung like a veil on my brow. 
Nay — I will never tell! 

Dear, there were four o'clocks half awake 
And star-light and song like wine, 

But how was it dear, when the morning brake 
With a bounty of good sunshine ? 

I knelt in the dawn for your sake. 

They call me fickle, my Sweet, my Sweet, 
And Witch o' the Laughing South. 

But no! I have felt your great heart beat, 
And I wear your kiss on my mouth. 

Could the Ordained turn cheat ? 



THE PUPIL 

That day! The breezes were warm and wild, 
They tossed my ruffles and tangled my hair, 
They lurked in my roses and laughed in there, 
Then up to the blue they fled and piled 
Cloudy flakes into balls of white. 
And while you were speaking so soft and fair, 
And my heart was beating with mad heart-might, 
Down they flocked thro' the April air — 



44 



(Shame little breezes to peep and stare!) 
Down they frolicked and mocked my plight. 
Ah, but I was a neophyte! 

Well, it is odd. I forgot just when 

The seventh Henry of England reigned, 

(Tho' I said it over and over again!) 

But an instant's glance in your eyes that pained 

My inmost heart, and the touch of your hand, 

By never an effort are still retained! 

Strange tho' I did not understand, 

I needed not that it be explained. 

Listen, my Tutor, you best of men,! 

Come with June to this tropic land 

And hear the lesson you taught me then! 



BOATING 

It all comes back like a dream once more, 
The feathers of cloud afloat in the blue, 

The glad, green waves and the long, white shore, 

The placid dip of the steady oar, 
The low little boat — and you! 

Rocking and dipping and gliding along, 

Pensively silent and glad, we two. 
The green little waves that we rocked amongl 
Were lovingly crooning a cradle-song 
To that low little boat and you! 

Presently pausing, you looked at me 
Just as so often I'd seen you do, 
Softly you murmured, " How sweet 'twould be 
To row thro' life on the World's great sea, 
In this low little boat with you!" 



45 



All in a breath with a sudden pour, 

The rain came down from the clouded blue! 
Dazed and rapid you plied the oar, 
Drenched and dripping I gained the shore 
In that low little boat with you! 

No — Teddie, please — not any for me! 

It's all very well for an hour or two, 
But I scarcely think it would pleasant be 
To sally forth on the World's great sea 

In that low little boat with you! 



MERIEL 

" Let go my hand!" A start of quick surprise. 

" How could you dare ?" A flash of angry eyes. 
And yet her hand in mine all passive lies. 

" You grieve me so," The rose-blush fully blown. 
" I trusted you," 'twould melt a heart of stone, 
And still the little hand lies in my own. 

Oh dainty Meriel, scorn me as you may, 
I know full well tho' pouting lips cry Nay, 
This little hand shall rest in mine alway! 



LAST NIGHT 

Oh the dancers and dreamers were merry last night, 
There were melting waltzes and faces fair, 
Jest and frolic and laughter light, 

(My gown was a marvel— gold and white — ) 
But you were not there. 



46 



I danced with all— and they did not know! 
Oh, I was merry for I can wear 
A smile on a tear, hide flame with snow, 
(Daws peck only the hearts that show.) 
But you were not there. 

True one vowed that he heard me sigh, 
And looked on me with a softened air 
That planily and pleadingly questioned why, 
But I laughed a laugh that was half a lie — 
You were not there. 

Why was your face in the flowers 1 wore ? 
Why did your eyes seem everywhere ? 
Why was your step on the polished floor, 
Why did your voice sound o'er and o'er, 
When you were not there ? 



MY TROUBLES 

They say I'm very little 

An' still I'm in their way, 
An' when I ask 'em questions 

They answer, " Go and play." 
They stumble on my dollies, 

They brush my dishes 'round, 
But when I broke their mirror, 

Oh Gacious! How they frowned! 
They stood me in a corner 

And turned me to the wall, 
And said, " What is she good for ? 

" Why mischief, that is all." 
And when I went to Mother 

And dumb up on her knees 
And told her, " I is sorry, 

" Won't you escuse me please ? 

47 



" I isn't good for nuffin. " 

She looked at me so sad 
I 'spec' she 'most was cryin' 

Because 1 is so bad. 
She kissed me forty hunderd, 

An' told me soft and low, 
' ' What would we do wivout you ? ' 

" Vat's what / want to know." 



NURSE MAGGIE 

My nurse Maggie she's got a box 
Covered wiv shells an' shiney rocks; 
Iss allers locked, but she told me 
At's where she keeps her rosaree 
An' little brown book — iss on a shelf 
What Maggie hanged in her room herself; 
An' a statue-lady top of it stands 
Holdin' a deep white shell in her hands 
For Maggie to wash her fingers in 
An' skeer off trouble an' harm an' sin. 
An' my nurse Maggie knows tales at's true, 
'Bout saints an' debbils an' angels too. 
An' so at night when I've said my prayers, 
An' Mother an' Father is goned somewheres, 
I scrooches down in 'e nurseree 
On 'e big bear-rug by Maggie's knee, 
An' 'e fire wakes up an' jumps an' falls 
An' scatters 'e gober-lins over 'e walls — 
(But / aint skeered) an' Maggie she 
'Mences atellin' 'em tales er me. 
An' I'm goner tell you one — 'taint the best 
But Maggie tells it 'e off-enest. 
An' I like er tell it you see, acuz 
I c'n tell it ezzackly like Maggie does. 



48 



'E good St. Peter had sisters two, 
One was little an' frail an' fair, 
Nothin' of sorrow or sin she knew, 
Her life was given to fast an' prayer. 

The other was older; she worked an' wed 

An' lived in a world of toil and stir, 

A brood of seven she clothed an' fed — 

'E good Saint sighed when he thought of her. 

An' one day, guarding 'e pearly gate, 
He heard 'e sound of a golden blast, 
A earned a spirit in royal state — 
" My little sister," he thought, " at last. 

" My little sister who knows no wrong, 
Who wears 'e veil of a holy nun" 
But lo! as he looked on 'e radiant throng, 
His heart stood still — 'twas V older one ! 

" Ah well," he said, " if 'e blue vaults ring 
Wiv praises for one of 'ese worldly wives, 
Truly triumphant 'e songs we'll sing 
When my little sister the saint, arrives." 

An' so one day as he sat profound, 
'E gates swung back on their hinges high — 
But never a anthem hailed 'e sound — 
An' his little sister — earned — slowly— by, 

Slowly — by — in her robes of snow, 
One white lily she held unseared, 
'E only treasure she had to show — 
St. Peter nodded an' stroked his beard. 



49 



St. Peter nodded — 'at's all he did, 
But iss got a moral or some pin ', hid 
Away in 'e words what I can't find, 
But Maggie calls it a " comfort kind," 
An' she says nuns, 'ey is good an' pure, 
An' 'ey'll get to Heaven certain an' sure, 
But 'ey aint greeted 'e way she'll be, 
For 'tennin' to bad little boys like me. 



BEDTIME 

When Father reads the paper, 
An' Mother sews till late 
An' me and Sister's buildin' blocks 
Or drawin' on the slate, 
Or Uncle Bob's atellin' 
'Bout goberlins or bears — 
Then Mary whispers, " Bedtime! 
" Now childern, come upstairs." 

An' sometimes there's a party 
In all the rooms and hall — 
'Cep up here in the nursery 
There never is a-tall. 
An' ladies dressed all shiney, 
An' gentlemens 'at bow, 
Go up an' down — we'd join 'em 
'Cep Mother don't allow. 

An' oncet we heard the music 
An' crep' out to the stairs 
An' peeked atween the banisters — 
An' folks was ever wheres, 
Alaughin' an' atalkin' 
Wiv lots of fings to eat, 
And Sister commenced clappin' 
An' hollered, " Aint it sweet ?" 
50 



An' Uncle Bob was passin' 
An' saw her poke her head, 
An' ranned upstairs a askin' 
" Why aren't those kids in bed ?" 
That's zackly what he called us, 
An Mary took us straight, 
We is so young an' little 
We musn't sit up late. 

An' me an' Sister's settled 

We fink it's very wrong, 

An' when we grow up big and old, 

We'll sit up all night long! 

MY SOLDIER 

" Tis the Glorious Fourth!" he cries, 
With the glad new look in his eyes. 

" There are battles to fight," says he. 
And all day long in the sweet sunshine, 
Sound the mimic gun and the battery fine, 

And my Soldier's shouts of glee. 

But at even all is still, 

The army goes down the hill. 

Ah, but the fight was hard! 
Close to my side he comes and stands, 
With grimy cheek and with blistered hands, 

My Soldier, tiny and scarred. 

Oh, calm of the long, sweet night! 

Oh, Angels that hover and guard! 
I hold him tight — so tight, 

Lean close, little head, lean hard. 
There are battles to fight, there are battles to be, 
But after them all will you come to me, 

My Soldier, tiny and scarred ? 

51 



THE BABY'S CURLS 

A little skein of tangled floss they lie, 

(You always said they should have been a girl's.) 
The tears will come — you cannot quite tell why — 

They fall unheeded on that mass — his curls. 
Poor little silken skein, so dear to you. 

" 'Twere better short," the wiser father said, 

" He's getting older now." — Alas, how true! 

And yet you wonder where the years have fled. 

" 'Twere better short — " the while your fond heart yearned 
To keep them still, reluctant standing by, 
You saw your little angel, earthward turned, 

Yet all unknowing, lay his halo by. 
Soft little threads! They held you with such strength! 

You knew the way each wanton ringlet fell, 
You knew each shining tendril's golden length, 

How oft they've tangled, only you can tell. 

In dusky twilight shadows, oh, how oft 

You've seen their light along your shoulder lie. 
You leaned your cheek to touch the masses soft, 

The while you crooned some drowsy lullaby. 
How often when the sun was dawning red 

You bent above him in the early ray, 
And from that glory round the baby head 

You drew your light for all the weary day. 

And now — you start — the front door gives a slam — 

The hall resounds with little, hurrying feet, 
He climbs upon your knee — the wee, shorn lamb, — 

And dries your tears with kisses, warm and sweet. 
You fold your sorrow from his happy eyes — 

(You always said they should have been a girl's.) 
Half of his Eden sunlight buried lies 

Amid the meshes of those baby curls. 

52 



THE WEAVER 

One day I wove a web of colors rare, 

All rose and azure with unconscious art. 

And ere I knew, the thread so fine and fair 
Was woven with the fibers of my heart. 

Yet still I labored on till set of sun, 

Dreamed as I wove and carolled as I dreamed, 
And lo! One morn I found my work undone, 

Raveled and broken — Ah, to me there seemed 

Naught life held else so beautiful, so bright, 
All night I wept, but I have dried my tears, 

I weave today a web of silent white — 

Some golden threads there be to mark the years. 

And winter snows may fall and flowers may bloom, 

I heed them little as I sit apart, 
For I must keep mine eyes upon my loom 

That not a thread may ever touch my heart. 



THE DAUGHTER 

She sits where the lamp-light plays 

Gracious and gold on her hair, 
Her fingers threading the maze 

Of a long forgotten air. 

Smoking apart in his chair, 
He listens with half shut gaze. 

It is just as her mother sat 

With hair in a gold-bright mist, 

The same little dimple at 

The varying curve of wrist, 

The mouth that was shaped to be kissed- 

(The same little note struck flat). 



53 



And the new wife leans and looks. 
And listens with yawn and smile, 

Her soft little palm slow strokes 
His idle arm the while, 
She is wondering if the style 

Will change in the new Fall cloaks. 

She has lighted the lonely place, 
She has gilded and decked it o'er, 

The halls have a lordly grace, 

There's a crest on the carriage door — 

But the wrist and the half-turned face 
Are the dower of one before. 

Dimly they drift and glow 
Before his eyes, in the ring 

Of smoke, to the little, low 
Song that she used to sing — 

— " And what is that dismal thing 
That Elinor's strumming so?" 

" Really," he says, " my dear," 
And smiles at her husband-wise, 

He coughs at the smoke to clear 
The — something out of his eyes, 
" Really," he says and sighs, 

'" I was half asleep, I fear." 

PRUDENCE: 1808 

Her bodice is blue and amber, 
Her kerchief is dainty with lace, 

And dark are the curls that clamber 
To frame the pink of her face. 

She's a gay little flowery skirt on, 

It brushes her tips of feet, 
And she sits in the dusky curtain 

Of the wide old window seat, 

54 



Carefully, slowly inditing 

"April eleventh," the date, 

In fine little slanted writing, 
" Eighteen-hundred-and-eight. " 

Finished today, her diary! 

All in the shadow grey, 
She has written it hid in her eyrie 

From even the glance of day. 

No one has ever seen it, 

No one shall ever see — 
She closes it — pen between it — 

Then dreamily — " Only He. 

" When the mist of the years has shifted, 
He'll ride thro' the morning dim, 

And high on his charger lifted, 
He'll bear me away with him. 

" Then back I shall lovingly lead him, 
(When we have been wedded a year) 

Into this nook and read him 
The lines of my diary here. 

" And Ah, he will smile, caressing 
My cheek — it will make him sad— 

Softly with tears confessing, 

'Such dear little thoughts you had!'" 

Down from her high seat climbing, 
Down from her dream drops she, 

For the stern hall clock is chiming 
And the plates must be laid for tea. 



55 



Sweet little girl! Mid yew dense, 
And under a century's weight, 
She lieth, above her — Prudence, 
Etghteen-hundred-and-eight. 

And up in the rain-beaten garret 
The children uncovered a book, 

The moths they had deigned to spare it, 
The mice knew a darker nook, 

'Twas laden with dust and smelling 

Of damp and a slow decay, 
And they laughed at the queer old spelling 

Of words in their grand aunt's day. 



ROSES AND A MEMORY 

She sat beside the casement — it was May. 

A single rose was leaning o'er the ledge, 
Its saffron petals perfume-breathing lay 

Wide open with a sun tint on their edge. 

It seemed like her — my mother, as she laid 
Her cheek upon her hand so frail and fair, 

Her dark eyes changing with the light and shade, 
The sun-tint lingering in her loosened hair. 

I watched the crimson jewel at her belt, 
The golden lace acluster at her throat, 

And leaning all atremor close, I felt 
The richness of the roses rise and float. 



56 



Oh ache within a child's unlessoned heart! 

Thick-surging thoughts that knew no word so sweet 
As would portray them, made the warm tears start, 

And nestling full of loving at her feet, 

I felt the silken soothing of her hand 

With tender understanding, touch my hair. 
And so the even spent its golden sand 

And quiet night came on and found us there. 

So many days since then, so many tears 
And still the roses linger! Even now 

Those sainted fingers brush away the years 

And drift with healing softness down my brow. 



TWO LETTERS 

Miss Nina: 

It's only a letter 
From him as you used to know, 
Look to the end— you'll see me, 
Arniky — Arniky Joe. 
Him as was used to ride ye 
High on thet neck o' his, 
An' claim fer his fee a posy, 
An' mebbe you'd add a kiss. 

You was so Iaughin' an' little 

An' yo' big gold curls was sly 

Fer lassoin' all the sunbeams 

Thet happened to saunter by. 

Yo' round little face was dimpled, 

Dimpled yo' arms an' brown, 

An' you ruled the ranch like a empress, 

From the boss to the mess-man down. 



57 



You was McAnder's baby — 
Mac was my old-time pal — 
An' there wasn't a thing agoin' 
Too good for McAnder's gal. 
Yo's was a gentle mother, 
Proud o' her baby too, 
Kep' you dressed on a Sunday 
Fer meetin' in white and blue. 
Little white dress all lacey, 
Little blue sash an' bows, 
An' yo' little white cap set jaunty 
Like ruffles around a rose. 

Yo' mother she died one Christmas — 

Died on a Christmas night. 

You didn't worry, I reckon, 

You was asleepin' tight. 

An' Mac, when you woke acallin' 

An' stretchin' yo' little hand, 

Cried like a baby, sayin' 

" She never will understand." 

There wa'n't no preachers on week-davs, 

An' so in the moonlight dim 

Thet come through the little winder, 

We chanted a gospel hymn. 

An' you, not aknowin', jined us 

In yo' quaverin' baby way, 

An' after ye'd went on sleepin' 

We kep' off the wolves till dav. 

The blizzard come up at day-break, 
An' it sleeted an' snowed and rained. 
An' the rest snuk off to the fun'ral, 
While I kep' you entertained. 

An' mebbe you don't remmeber 
The day thet the injuns came, 



58 



Asplittin' the air with yellin' 
An' leaving a wake o' flame. 
An' Mac with a sort o' longin', 
(Fer scrappin' was his delight, 
But fire on a windy prairie 
Wa'n't made fer a man to fight) 

An' Mac with a kind o' longin', 
Said, " Nothin' to do but run," 
An' he set you stride o' his pummel, 
(But you was a plucky one!) 
We rode like the wind behind us, 
An' the flames was cracklin' hot. 
We halted but once — God help us — 
An' thet 'uz when Mac was shot. 

He reeled an' he fell from his saddle. 
An' his face was white and wild, 
He reeled but you clung to him loyal. 
An' he whispered, " Take the child, 
" Take her, I'm done for — hurry! 
" Don't kneel there nursin' my head- 
Back to her mother's people, 
" I've wronged 'em enough," he said. 

God knows it was nothin' asavin' 
A mite of a thing like you, 
But aleavin' him there — adyin' 
Was a powerful thing to do. 

An' I took you back to yo' people, 
An' the journey was slow an' fer. 
An' they met you down at the station, 
An' said thet you looked like her. 
An' they was most fine an' formal, 
But the last o' the things I know 
Was yo' face at the kerridge winder, 
Acryin' fer Arniky Joe. 
59 



An' sometimes I sort o' wonder, 
(Hut mebbe you've done fergot) 
Whether you're slim an' little, 
Er tall like yo' dad — er what. 
I've passed by yo' house so often, 
An' sholy it's mighty fine, 
I ain't got the face to jar it 
In clothes so skeery as mine. 

An' I thought if you wouldn't mind, Ma'am, 

I'd ask ye to let me make 

A call on you out by yo' stable — 

Jest fer yo' daddy's sake. 

Out by the big brick stable 

Thet stands at the back o' yo' yard, 

— Thet is if yo' husband's willin'— 

I was yo' daddy's pard. 

Mebbe you've done fergot me, 
You was so little, you see, 
But I wanted to glimpse Mac's baby, 
Faithfully, 



Joe Magee. 



Miss Nina: 

Another letter! 
P rom me as was always shy 
On literature and learnin', 
But I wanted to say, " Good bye." 
I hadn't no words to thank ye, 
Like I ought to a done last night. 
I reckon you thought I was looney, 
An' mebbe ye had it right! 

To think how you met me yonder, 
Jest as I asked ye to, 



60 



Out by the big brick stable, 

Adrawin' me off with you. 

Up through the flowerin' bushes, 

Up to the door an all, 

Atakin' my big sombrero 

An' hangin' it up in the hall. 

Aleadin' me into the parlor 
An' givin' me one o' the cheers, 
There in the midst o' pianers 
An' flowers an' shindeleers! 

An' after I'd kind o' settled, 
I looked an' I knowed 'twas you 
Fair as yo' lady-mother, 
An' dressed in yo' white an' blue. 
Hair sort o' bright and tangled, 
Little hands clasped — jest so — 
Smilin' an' sweet an' dainty, 
Talkin' to Arniky Joe. 

An' the good old-fashioned dinner — 

An' over it all — yo' face, 

An' spite o' the shiney candles, 

I didn't feel out o' place. 

An' yo' husband he told sech stories, 

I never have heard sech — no! 

You'd a thought 'twas a lord at table, 

'Stead o' old Arniky Joe! 

An' I might a said " Thank ye," fer it, 
I might as I come away, 
But somethin' got on my palate, 
An' I hadn't a word to say. 
An' yo' hands was so white an' slender, 
An' you shet 'em so soft on mine, 
Atellin' me, come there often, 
I'm sho' it was mighty fine, 
61 



But I aimed last night to tell ye — 
I didn't — I don't know why — 
Thet I aint got long in the city, 
I'm writin' to say, good bye. 
An' Texas is fer an' lonely, 
But it aint too fer for me 
To think o' McAnder's baby — 
God bless her, 

Joe Magee. 



THE KISS 

" O flying Dove, Oh Ring-dove, hie thee south! 

Fly to my Love and tell her how I fare. 
I live but for the sweetness of her mouth, 

The fragrance of her hair. 

Hearken, white Dove! her casement is entwined 
With golden roses in the hush of bloom. 

She waiteth there at twilight and the wind 
Goes laden with perfume. 

How shalt thou know her? By her shining hair! 

The roses pale beside it o'er their bars. 
She leans among them radiantly fair, 

A moon among her stars. 

Aye, thou shalt know her! She will lean and list 
And Ah, perchance her hand shall fondle thee! 

And thou shalt bear a rose that she hath kissed, 
Safe-garnered, back to me! 

Fly fast, Oh winged Dove, ere day be o'er! 

Tell her how dreary is the loveless field. 
Bring me one rose from out her golden store — 

One kiss within it sealed." 



62 



The Ring-dove cleft the sunny blue. 

'Twas near the battle hour. 
He heard the armies as he flew, 

The day began to lower. 

Erelong he paused where came no ring 

Of tumult or of wars 
And folded close his faithful wing 

Beneath the tropic stars. 

When lo! Upon the fragrant night 

A song fell liltingly, 
Ne'er was there heard from man or bird 

A sweeter melody. 

" Oh Love with my heart in fief 
Oh Love with my soul for a toy 

Take back thy loan of grief, 
Give me my bartered joy. 

Free thou my wrists from the chain. 
My fee* from the web thou has! wove. 
Unburden my life of its pain — 
Yet leave me not, Oh Love 

It was the bower of his quest. 

He saw her golden hair. 
And lo! She lay upon the breast 

Of one who loitered there. 

' My Love,' this other spake, ' I mar 

My joy in hearing thee. 
Oh, dost thou sing to one afar, 

Or dost thou sing to me ? ' 



63 



Along the night her laughter brake, 

As light as petals blow, 
' Ah, Love is light of heart,' she spake, 

' And warriors come and go. 

' And present lips are present bliss — ' 
She plucked a rose asway — 
'Tis thus with him,' she said, ' I kiss,- 
I kiss — and fling away!' 

It fell. The leafy bower stirred 

With little weary wings, 
Adown the dark a tiny bird 

Enfolds the boon she flings. 



He lay upon the trodden field, 
The battle fought and won. 

The scars were gathered on his shield 
That caught the early sun. 

Upon his bosom heavily, 

There pressed the hand that stills, 
Yet with a fixed and patient eye, 

He watched the southern hills. 

Now o'er the faint and purple peaks, 

A little point of grey, 
With swift and steady winging makes 

Its blue and trackless way. 

With ardent life swift quickening, 
The warrior-palms unclose, 

He strokes the little quivering wing 
And takes the drooped rose. 



64 



Against his lips it lieth light 

To give the sealed kiss, 
Nor hidden thorn nor gathering night 

May rob his soul of this! 

THE MINNESINGER 

He came alone — the noontide sun burned o'er him 

In the great dome of sky. 
His little feet were grey with dust, before him 

The road lay blank and dry. 

It was a city where the castle towers 

Rose peaked from the cool breast 
Of dewy trees, and where the drowsy flowers 

Leaned in a fragrant rest. 

His harp swung heavy from his tired shoulder, 

He saw the castle-gate. 
The breezes beckoned cool, and growing bolder, 

He entered in to wait. 

Reclining on the fountain rim all shady, 

He heard a sudden sigh — 
A bitter breath, and lo! there stood a lady 

The marble fountain nigh. 

Dark-robed she stood with fair hands locked before her, 

Her shining hair swept down, 
The fountain's shadow like a sorrow o'er her, 

And on her brow — a crown. 

Dumb for a dazzled second, then upspringing, 

He gazed upon her face. 
" Sing me, sweet child," she said, "some song worth 
singing 

" In this sad place." 

65 



He touched his harp with trembling hand — she listened. 

Like to a shadowed spring 
That holds the far-off stars, her dark eyes glistened, 

So sweetly did he sing. 

He sang of Life, of Love — the dear pain-bringer, 

Of Death and Heaven's content. 
He had sweet words, the little weary singer, 

Who wist not what they meant. 

Silent she stood, then on the fountain leaning, 

While the soft water leapt, 
The music's gentle murmur intervening, 

She bowed her brow and wept. 

" Give me thy harp," she cried, " Oh, Happy-hearted! 

" Let me go forth and sing. 
" Stay thou instead, when I have hence departed, 

" Stay thou and be a King." 

A tinkle in the sweet harp-treble made he. 
Tear-soft yet brimming o'er 
With ripples laughter-light, 

" Oh, gentle Lady, 

Let me go forth once more ! 

Cool ts thy shade, but it was spread for thee, 

Sweet is my song, but must be sung by me. 

I've tasted of thy fountain on my way, 

Its charm were gone forever did I stay. 

Cold on my forehead were thy crown and sharp, 

And thy white hand could never ply my harp. " 

Such wisdom and such lack of living blended! 

" Farewell," he said, " Farewell," 
And so he left her when his song was ended, 

Where the white fountain fell. 



66 



Adown the distant road she watched him winding, 

And cried, " Oh, free young feet!" 
And he long after, in the noon sun, minding, 

Sighed, " But the shade was sweet. 

THE ROSE AND ROSALIND 

Ladies lovely and unkind, 

List the lay of Rosalind— 

Which I learned I know not where— 

List the lay— and have a care! 



Oh the little rose was pale, 
She had budded in the shade- 
Poor of petal, dwarfed and frail, 
No one marked her where she swayed, 
Tho' her life a sweetness spent 
With a fond heart-lavishment 
On her little continent. 

Quoth the little rose, " Alas! 

All day long the footsteps pass. 

I have much to give indeed, 

If the world would only heed. 

What can be the careless creed 

Of the knights who pass me by 

Singing low and merrily 

As with hearts hope-lifted high, 

Riding quick and cheerily 

Thro' the palace-portal nigh— 

Thence to fare so drearily ? 

What the hope within their breast ? 

What their song and what their quest ? 

What then may their sorrow be ? 



67 



In yon balcony bloom-twined 

Sits the lady Rosalind — 

Would that I her face might see!" 

Mused the rose alone 

Till the blue-veiled ev'ning came 

And the white moon like a flame, 

Lighted in the dusk and shone. 

Then a gold-haired Page appeared 

'Neath the bloom-twined balcony, 

And his gittern tuned sweet. 

Gently in his arms he reared — 

Tenderly, as if he feared 

There might fall too harsh a moan. 
" Oh my Lady look on me. 
And the look however fleet, 
I will cherish for mine own 
Till my heart hath ceased to beat!" 

Sang the Page full tenderly, 

Love's desiring in his tone. 

"Oh my Lady smile on me!" 

Did the little Page repeat. 

Lo! A moon-white blossom stirred 

In the bow'r of Rosalind, 

And her laughter low did wind 

Clearer than the Page's song, 

Liquid-light and liquid-long, 

Yet so finely veined with scorn, 

That it entered like a thorn 

To the heart of him that heard. 

Then beneath her balcony 

Did he answer at the last, 

While the gittern did complain 

With sweet moan on ev'ry word, 

" Thorn and scorn are sweet to me, 
Lady, since they fall from thee, 



68 



Thus unto my heart I bind 
These thy gifts so cruel-kind, 
Thus I may my solace gain — 
Death is oft times born of pain. 
And he bowed his head and passed. 



'Twas the golden afternoon, 

All the world was drugged with June. 

In her bow'r leaned Rosalind, 

Thro' her blossoms moved the wind 

Softly as a sigh. 

And the mirror on her knee 

She had drowsed too deep to see. 

(Lo, the rose climbed high!) 

Rosalind the pitiless, 

Terrible with loveliness, 

Sleeping in her bow'r alone. 

On her arm she leaned a cheek 

Rosed as dawn's divinest streak, 

Dark her eyes with sea-blue shine 

'Neath the eye-lids' white caress, — 

And her mouth was red like wine, 

Coiled gold her hair, 

Coiled gold that slept and shone. 

(Quoth the rose, " I dare") 

What is this so small and white, 
Like a drop of snow ill-timed 
Fallen on my Lady's bower ? 
Lo! The little rose hath climbed 
Upward by her thorny might 
Till she blooms an alien flower, 
With her pallid face inclined 
O'er the couch of Rosalind. 

69 



Quoth the little rose, " Behold! 
Harmony of white and gold, 
Beauties blended manifold. 
Yet I read them well I wis, 
Fairness without fragrance this. 
Nature, mother of us twain, 
Hath she formed us each in vain ? 
One who in her loveliness, 
Wantonly doth work distress, 
One so dwarfed and poor and plain 
Yet so fain to cheer and bless ? 
Oh allotment most unfair!" 
Quoth the little rose, " I dare!" 

Bending from her briery stem, 

(Softly little rose!) 
Bending o'er the Lady's sleep, 
Did she filch and fold it deep — 
All that beauty-diadem, 
Did she steal it without stint, 
Red of mouth and cheek's rose-hint 
And the soft hair's ruddy glint, 
Bloom and snow and curve and tint, 
Lo! She pilfered them. 
Firmly did her petals close 
'Round the splendid robbery, 
As a hand about a gem, 
Then most soft and secretly 
Slipt she down the balcony. 

Languidly the Lady woke, 
Leaned her face full listlessly 
For the mirror's old reply, 
Oh the horror in the cry 
From the flowered balcony! 
And the mirror fell and broke. 



70 



Bid them come who made their prayer 

Unto Rosalind the Fair! 

Bid them come and woo her now. 

Lo! The altar is undressed 

And the shrine is lying bare! 

Bid them come and make their vow, 

Even he the lowliest. 

Withered cheek and wisp of hair, 

Sunken eyes and wrinkled brow, 

Low she lieth, dispossessed. 

In the court below 
Doth a new rose blow 
With a wine-red heart, 
And the petals fold on fold 
Give the sunlight gold for gold, 
(Little rose how fine thou art!) 

Oh she bloometh bright, 
(She that was so white) 
And her gift she yeilds the same 
Unto knight and lord and dame, 
Gift of beauty without blight, 
Gift of fragrant heart-delight, 
And the passing pulses stir 
As the eyes take note of her, 
Sweet to soul and sweet to sight. 

Sings the little Page, 

Suddenly grown sage, 

" Beauty is a petal-sheath, 
Fall the petals— there's the test! 
Blooms a fragrant heart beneath, 
Love will build himself a nest: 
If 'tis but a canker there 
Love will leave the blossom bare! 

Sings the little Page, 

Even he the lowliest! 

71 



FEB iU 1987 



LIBRARY OF <t-«" -:.. ; .| 




